MinxterBLOOM

This haunting poem by E.A. Robinson reminds me of Polygonum orientale. Sometimes known as Ladyfingers, other times as Kiss me over the garden gate, this heirloom is a perfect pink foil for a white or ice-blue arbor.

Luke Havergal

Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal,
There where the vines cling crimson on the wall,
And in the twilight wait for what will come.
The leaves will whisper there of her, and some,
Like flying words, will strike you as they fall;
But go, and if you listen she will call.
Go the western gate, Luke Havergal—
Luke Havergal.

No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies
To rift the fiery night that's in your eyes;
But there, where western glooms are gathering,
The dark will end the dark, if anything:
God slays Himself with every leaf that flies,
And hell is more than half of paradise.
No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies—
In eastern skies.

Out of a grave I come to tell you this,
Out of a grave I come to quench the kiss
That flames upon your forehead with a glow
That blinds you to the way that you must go.
Yes, there is yet one way to where she is,
Bitter, but one that faith may never miss.
Out of a grave I come to tell you this—
To tell you this.

There is the western gate, Luke Havergal,
There are the crimson leaves upon the wall.
Go, for the winds are tearing them away,—
Nor think to riddle the dead words they say,
Nor any more to feel them as they fall;
But go, and if you trust her she will call.
There is the western gate, Luke Havergal—
Luke Havergal.

This poem first appeared in The Children of the Night published in 1897. Teddy Roosevelt (I am told) admitted, "I am not sure I understand 'Luke Havergal,' but I am entirely sure I like it." The poem is at once Western, as in "look to the horizon young man" and also vampire-like. Some feminine force, like a dead young girl, calls simultaneously. Shall we ask Christopher Walken to read this? Yes, I think so.